


Call of the Void

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Graphic Description, Intrusive Thoughts, Mutilation, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: He whistled as he sliced through the onion, praying his eyes wouldn’t get irritated.And then Roger slammed the knife straight across his fingers. Blood spurted out of the nubs, his four fingers rolling on the cutting board. Roger did it again, this time cutting through his palm and thumb.





	Call of the Void

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked: one of the boys dealing with intrusive thoughts bc of their ocd ?

Roger squinted at the recipe in front of him, eyes scanning over the next step. He was home alone with no plans for the night, so he figured he could try and dabble with the recipe book he just bought. Tonight, he was attempting to make Greek gyros.  **Attempting**. 

_Finely dice ¼ a cup of yellow onions_

Roger wasn’t a fan of yellow onions, so he substituted them for red ones. No big deal right? 

He reached into his grocery bag with all the ingredients he had bought earlier, picking out the onion. He grabbed a knife and got to work dicing them on the cutting board. He was no chef, but chopping everything up until it was in small pieces seemed within his skill level.

He whistled as he sliced through the onion, praying his eyes wouldn’t get irritated.

And then Roger slammed the knife straight across his fingers. Blood spurted out of the nubs, his four fingers rolling on the cutting board. Roger did it again, this time cutting through his palm and thumb. 

He kept whacking away at his hand until the kitchen was covered in red and gore and he was left with only a stump on his wrist. He kept going still.

Roger jumped back, awakened from his thought. He looked down at his hand, still intact, not a drop of blood leaking out of it. His breath was hitched, eyes watering, not from the onions. 

Shakily he put the knife down and backed out of the kitchen, his hand on his chest. What the fuck?

He’d order Chinese take out instead.

♚

“And this new kitty is named Tiffany! Just look at her,” Freddie said, holding up the tiny new addition to his family. Tiffany mewed at Roger, batting his nose with her small paw.

Roger couldn’t help but to nearly screech at the adorable little kitten. “This is your first pure bred isn’t it?” he asked as Freddie handed Tiffany over to him. The grey kitten stretched out on his lap before curling up, unbothered by all the attention. It was her nap time, it seemed.

“Yes! I saw an ad in the paper for a breeder and well..I usually adopt, but I just had to see this litter. And I fell in love with her when I saw her. She’s a magnificent daughter isn’t she?” Freddie gushed, stroking the sleepy Tiffany’s little head. Tiffany squeaked.

Roger joined in on the petting, his pointer finger big enough to give her a nice rub behind her flattened ears.

If he linked his thumb with his pointer, his fingers were big enough to pick Tiffany up from around the neck and squeeze. And if he squeezed hard enough maybe her head would pop off. Maybe he could just rip it’s head off with his hand, no issue. It wouldn’t even struggle. He could crush it’s head under his heel, if he wanted. He cou-

Roger gasped, looking at Tiffany in his lap. Her eyes were closed, letting out a quiet purr. His heart was beating fast, a sweat forming on his brow. His whole body began to shake as he handed Tiffany back to a confused Freddie, stuttering out an excuse as to why he had to leave so suddenly. 

As he walked down the hallway to the front door, he jumped when a cat brushed up against him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to it before running out the door. There was something seriously wrong with him.

♚

The first thing Roger heard was snapping. He shook his head, desperately trying to push those thoughts out of his head. He blinked back tears, looking at John who was trying to get his attention.

“Hello? Roger, are you there? Ar- oh. Goodness, why are you crying, mate?” John said, his disposition going soft once he saw the panic in Roger’s eyes.

Roger looked around, unsure of what to do. The jig was up. He got caught in one of those day-mares. He had just finished thinking about thrashing John’s head back into the concrete wall until it broke, until his brain oozed out, until John was more than dead. 

He couldn’t say that. No. John would think he was insane. A psychopath. He had to lie. 

Roger wasn’t a good liar though.

He quickly wicked away his tears, coughing. “Oh, um. I don’t know what happened. Started thinking and got emotional, uh, I think,” he said, a hint of a tremor in his voice. 

John wasn’t a good liar himself either, but he did have a good bullshit detector. He nodded a little bit, scooting closer to Roger. He knew something was up even before the tears. Roger had suddenly disconnected from the conversation they were having, his face going blank. His eyes got all wide, his mouth curling into a frown. After a few seconds, he blinked himself back into reality, clearly upset by whatever just happened.

“Rog..you know I’m here for you, no matter what, right?” John said, his tone gentle. He didn’t want to pry, but something was up with his friend. It was in his nature to try to help.

Roger was finding it hard to breathe. He wanted to talk or say something, but all his brain could conjure up was the image of John dead in front of him. Dead by his hands. Dead slouched over the table or dead on the floor, bleeding out or screaming for help as Roger beat him with a chair or-

“Woah, Roger, take a breath,” John said, hands on Roger’s shoulder, snapping him out of it again. 

Roger wanted to bit his lip but words tumbled out instead. “There’s something wrong with me. Something really wrong. I keep t-thinking of all these horrible things.  **Me** doing those things. H-Hurting people and myself….Killing them…” 

He covered his mouth, his eyes growing glassy. Why did he say that? Why did he admit to being a murderer in the making?

John’s eyebrows went up at the confession, but he didn’t look disgusted or scared. He would be though. Roger was sure of that. 

John’s hands went from Roger’s shoulders to gripping the drummer’s hands in his own. The human touch felt good, but Roger didn’t deserve it. He was struggling to swallow a sob.

“That sounds like intrusive thoughts,” John said simply. His grey eyes stared into Roger’s, soft as ever. Roger expected an admittance of revulsion. A plan to force him into a psych ward. He didn’t expect that. 

Roger shook his head, not understanding. “W-What?” he stammered, his hands quaking.

“Intrusive thoughts. Just what it sounds like. Thoughts that randomly pop up into your brain that are bad. Evil. Gross. You don’t like or want them but your brain forces you to watch them anyways. They scare you. Disgust you. But you don’t have any control over ‘em,”

The more John talked, the more Roger deflated. There was a name for this? It was normal? Especially for people with OCD? Why hadn’t anyone told him that OCD and intrusive thoughts were buddy buddy? Why hadn’t anyone told him what intrusive thoughts even were?

“So, I’m not going crazy? Not going homicidal?” Roger blubbered, the tears dripping down his cheeks. He really thought he’d be the next Jack the Ripper in a year’s time. 

“You’re fine, mate. Trust me. I spend a  _lot_ of time in therapy,” John said with a small laugh, which made Roger smile a bit.

After collapsing into John’s hug and some more time talking about the phenomenon of intrusive thoughts, Roger felt so much better. He had spent months bottling up these experiences, hoping they’d go away on their own. He swore something was seriously wrong with him. To know that he was normal and not bad for thinking like this made his bones turn to jelly. John even had to drive Roger home since he was too limp with joy to maneuver his stick shift. 

Before parting that night, John made Roger promise him two things. 

One, to go see a therapist. Pills helped with OCD, but nothing could replace the tools and insight a therapist could give you.

And two, to relax. Roger was one of the sweetest, kindest people he knew. He wasn’t secretly evil or a creep. He was a good person. He was good. 

With a cheeky grin as he stood at the doorway, Roger said to John he could promise two but not one. After a friendly exchange of middle fingers, Roger closed to door, leaning against, taking in a deep breath.

_**I’m good.** _

_What if I slammed the door on my ankle and severed it?_

_**I’m good.** _

_What if I threw myself in front of John’s moving car?_

_**I’m good.** _

_What if I flung myself out the window?_

_**I’m good.** _

_**I’m good.** _

_**I. Am. Good.** _

Roger let out a sigh, eyes closing. That was the first nice thought he had in a _very_ long time.


End file.
